The Coming Storm
by Pocket-Anon
Summary: Killian contemplates Emma's decision to give up the shears after he betrays her trust in order to try to save her from her ominous fate. (Captain Swan one-shot, post 6x05. Angst & Romance. Rated G.)


Thunder rolls ominously through the thick night air, the wind starting to stir his hair and send stray leaves swirling and skittering across pavement. Killian's steps are heavy as he trudges back to the house – _back home_ , he reminds himself. He gets to call it home now. At any other time, the thought would have hastened his steps and lightened his tread, but not tonight. The guilt of his deception hangs on his shoulders like a yoke. It has since the moment he decided, two seconds after Emma entrusted him with the shears, that there was no way he could go along with her plan and sacrifice the only artifact that might save her life, the artifact that burns a hole in the pocket over his heart now.

She had misread him back in the loft when she'd reached for his hand and addressed his grim countenance by apologizing for not trusting him and promising no more secrets. Her secrecy had frustrated him, of course, but what upset him infinitely more was her willingness to sacrifice herself in the name of being noble, to pay the price for her magic like a martyr, to leave her family, to leave _him_. After everything they'd been through, the lengths they'd gone to – _she'd_ gone to – to be together, how could she so calmly accept the possibility of letting it all go? And only for the sake of keeping her magic?

He bites the inside of his cheek. Sacrificing their happy ending for the sake of maintaining her power – it reeks more of the bloody Crocodile than the Savior. He understands her motivations are quite different, that she's being selfless, that she's trying to hold on to her magic so she can protect the people she loves, but the parallel gnaws at his heart with relentless jaws nonetheless. Does she think so little of herself that she believes she can't be a Savior without her magic? Is it his fault that she doesn't understand that what makes her a hero isn't her magic but her heart?

It's not that he doesn't understand why she wants the shears gone. He's known many magical items in his long life – understands as much as anyone how they can be used for both good and evil. But he'd foolishly torched the Pegasus Sail in his rebellious anger over the loss of Liam, and that rash decision, well-intended though it might have been, had left him without a means to escape Neverland the second time around, forcing him to stay trapped on that cursed isle as Pan's errand boy for over a hundred years. It had been a long, hard lesson about the value of saving magical items for a rainy day, and since then, he'd held on to things. The dried up magic bean, Ursula's stolen voice, the piece of rigging from the Jolly, even the shell imbued with mermaid magic... all were objects he'd been grateful he had kept. So when he'd looked at those golden shears and then up at the woman he'd go to the ends of all space and time to protect, there was no question in his mind that such an item should not be relinquished, even in the name of keeping it out of enemy hands. He'd sat there feeling alone in his understanding that throwing away the shears meant throwing away Emma's ability to change her mind, to choose to live should they fail to find another way.

Killian hangs his head, teeth clenched in frustration as he rounds the corner. She's her mother's daughter – clinging to hope that they'll find an alternate way to save her. It's a courageous notion, pure and heroic, and it's not as though it's without precedent, but as much as he wants to feel the same way, to have the same kind of faith, he just can't. Too much is at stake.

He steals around to the side of the house, careful to skirt the edge of the yard and keep to the shadows lest Emma glance out the kitchen windows. It had been easy enough to propose a way to get rid of the shears that would allow him to carry out his subterfuge. He thanks the gods she hadn't seen through him, though the terrible pang in his chest at the sight of the absolute trust in her adoring eyes as she watched him row away from the dock made part of him wish then that she would. But he needs this the way she needed to travel to the Underworld to find him – he needs to know that she can come back from the brink, that she can save their future, that she can save _herself_. And if the price he has to pay to preserve that chance is her wrath, then so be it.

The door to the tool shed gives a single woeful creak as he cracks it wide enough to slip inside. He does not dare to turn on the overhead light, instead relying on a small pocket flashlight pointed downward to guide his steps. He'd debated where to hide the shears as he rowed the dinghy to the edge of the harbor and back again. The Jolly naturally came to mind, but he'd quickly ruled it out. Belle is still aboard, and it's hardly his private sanctuary any longer. Besides, after centuries of pirating, he knows a few things about hiding treasure. He wants the shears somewhere close, somewhere he can check on them periodically without arousing too much suspicion, and in the least obvious place anyone would think to look for an item of value, someplace boring and mundane and rarely visited. He exhales grimly as he crouches next to the makeshift workbench. A rusty old toolbox sits tucked on a shelf beneath the work surface, and he uses his hook to gingerly raise the lid, setting the flashlight between his teeth in order to retrieve the shears from his pocket and lay them softly inside. The light arcs across the brass as he pulls the flashlight back out of his mouth, and he stares.

He suddenly wonders if this is akin to what it felt like for Emma when he lay dying back in Camelot – the desperation, the terror of the finality of loss. He forgave her for her decision to turn him into a Dark One long ago, but, while he does not intend to be the one who decides whether she uses these shears, he thinks he understands better now the choice she had to make then, the impulse of the moment. Sadness that his Emma ever had to experience such a thing swirls together with self-loathing as he recalls the seething bitterness and cruel rage with which he'd condemned her afterward, and as the competing emotions rise up and wash over him, Killian winces and shuts his eyes, brow furrowed as he works to swallow the enormous lump in his throat.

He wearily forces himself to his feet, extinguishing the flashlight and stowing it before slipping out of the shed and heading back around the house toward the front door. Sucking in a deep breath, he schools his features into something resembling neutral as he ascends the porch steps.

The smell of wood burning in the fireplace meets his nose when he pushes open the door. Orange light dances across the walls of the living room as flames crackle merrily in the hearth, the firelight the only illumination in that space save for the light bleeding over from the kitchen.

Emma stands next to the stove scooping a sticky mixture of sugar, honey, butter, and spices from a large mixing bowl into two large mugs, a large plastic bag of Chinese take-out resting on the kitchen table behind her. Her boots sit abandoned next to the staircase, her jacket hanging on the newel. She glances over her shoulder at him as he enters, her dimples flashing and her eyes lighting up. "There you are," she says with a teasing lilt in her voice, "I was about to send out the cavalry. Or, you know, the dwarves."

He forces a chuckle and ducks his head, turning his face away under the guise of hanging up his jacket by the door. "Sorry, love. Took a bit of doing to make sure everything was secure."

Lightning flashes, as though Zeus himself is calling him out on this truth that isn't a truth. The corresponding crash of thunder that follows a second later shakes the house.

"Wow." Emma arches an eyebrow as she turns and looks out the front windows at the torrent that starts to pour from the sky. "Big storm. Guess you got home just in time." She holds the mugs aloft, her smile enticing. "These are ready, if you'd like to do the honors."

"Aye." Killian fishes the flask from his jacket and brings it over, pulling the stopper and giving both cups a healthy dose of rum. He cracks a wan smile when she hums with satisfaction.

She sets the mugs down and reaches for the steaming kettle on the stove. "Wanna eat on the sofa?"

He hooks the take-out bag and lifts it from the table, nodding and heading for the sitting area in front of the fireplace. "As you like, love."

Killian dutifully unpacks the little white boxes, arranging them on the coffee table while she pours the water and stirs the contents of each mug with a cinnamon stick. The fire seems to glow brighter when she switches the kitchen light off, her steps soft across the wood floor as she brings the drinks over.

The rim of her mug is already at her lips as she settles onto the sofa next to him and holds the other mug out to him. "Mmm." Emma's tongue peeks out to catch a drop which lingers on her Cupid's bow. "That's good."

He smiles and accepts his drink. "Thanks."

They break into the food in relative silence, content to allow the popping of the flames and the rage of the storm outside be the soundtrack to their meal. Emma offers a few comments here and there about the food, about Henry, and about her incredulity at finally meeting the real Aladdin and Jasmine, but while Killian does his best to provide the appropriate responses, he's still quieter than usual, preoccupied with his thoughts. He's grateful that she seems to understand his distraction, seems to respect his right to brood over the day's events without pressing him to talk or trying to apologize further in order to force him to forgive her.

It's not until they've finished eating, the remnants of their dinner returned to the kitchen and Emma tucked up against him with her head on his chest and her second cup of hot buttered rum cradled in her hands, that he finally feels compelled to speak.

"Do you remember when we were in Neverland and you were trying to unlock Pan's map?" he asks, staring distantly into the depths of the fire.

She takes a sip. "Yeah?" He can hear the curiosity in her voice.

"Do you remember how reluctant you were to admit then that you were the Savior?"

The corner of her mouth quirks ruefully. "Yeah."

Killian turns his head toward her. "Do you know that I was already a little in love with you then?"

Her eyes soften, her brows peaking in the center of her forehead. "Really?" She leans away for a second to set her drink down. "Even before we kissed?"

He nods, smiling gently. "Aye. The kiss forced me to admit to myself how I felt about you, but you stole my heart long before that."

Emma's expression turns gooey, and she wordlessly snuggles further into his side.

Killian sighs, running his fingers through her hair, the silky strands whispering along his calloused fingertips. "My point, Swan, is that I loved you before I knew you were the Savior – before you were comfortable using your magic." He bows his head. "I didn't fall in love with the Savior. I fell in love with you. Just you. Just Emma." He offers her a tiny nostalgic smile. "The orphan with walls a mile high who didn't even need magic to defeat a giant or slay a dragon."

The firelight reflects in the wet sheen of her eyes as she looks up at him, uncertainty creasing her face.

He runs the curve of his hook delicately along the line of her jaw, shaking his head a little. "Don't misunderstand – I love who you are now, too. I love that your walls are down. I love that you've embraced your magic. I love every part of you, Swan," he murmurs somberly, his eyes shining down on her face with pride and affection, "But I need you to know that I have and will always love every incarnation of you." He bites his lip. "If you… had chosen to use those shears," he says, his voice threatening to crack, "You'd still be _my_ savior, and I would still love you until the end of time."

Emma sniffles. "Killian…"

The wave of love and sadness, guilt and fear that wells up in his chest becomes too much to bear, and he is left with the only thing he can do, closing the distance between them and capturing her lips in his before she can say anything else. The kiss only partially masks the ragged breath he draws, and a tear escapes and slides down his cheek as he allows himself to drown in her, in the gentle movements of her mouth and the sound of her breath and the taste of the hot buttered rum on her tongue. His hand reaches up to cup the side of her face, his thumb grazing over the track of her own tear, and he wraps his left arm around her and crushes her to him as her arms fold around his neck. Killian inhales sharply and slants his mouth over hers again, desperate to use her kiss to soothe the pain roiling within him. "Please," he whispers when they come up for air, his forehead still pressed to hers, his eyes still closed in prayer, "Don't leave me."


End file.
